Corduroy

I’ve been having a weird few weeks where I wish I smoked cigarettes. I don’t actually want to smoke them though—just hold them between my fingers. They seem kinda perfect for a variety of situations I’ve found myself in lately: Fidgeting. Gazing out the window at the snow. Sitting around in underwear and a tank top singing along to the same Pearl Jam song thirty times in a row, daydreaming about the late-night dregs of some backyard party when the stragglers are all sitting around a table not eating the last of the food, and there’s a string of little white lights in the background. Maybe some bats in the sky. Flecks of ash and ember.